The Misery Index
by elelel
Summary: The frame was warm beneath his fingers as the figures within the photograph fell to their knees in anguish. He watched them yell out in despair but couldn’t hear a sound. Their screams itched just beneath his skin. AUTHOR NOTE: Abandoned. I'm sorry!
1. A House, A Photograph, And A Stolen Book

**The Misery Index**

**Chapter 1: A House, A Photograph, And A Stolen Book**

It was a dark Thursday night. The rain pitter-pattered against the windows and roofs of Godric's Hollow. The houses creaked in protest as gusts of wind were swept their way. Thunder cracked through the rain like a whip and a lightning bolt ignited the sky.

Unconsciously, Harry Potter rubbed at the scar on his forehead. He ran a hand through his dark tangles of hair, messing it up even more. Sighing, he continued staring out the window at the vacant village. He tried to image the streets outside bustling with people and their children, stopping to stare at all the fantastic items just inside the shop window but he couldn't. Everything was an empty shell.

Leaning into the cool window, Harry pressed his forehead against the glass. His scar was starting to twinge and he didn't want to think about what it could mean. He had never been a religious person, but he silently prayed Ron and Hermione were alright.

The trio had arrived at Godric's Hollow a year ago that day (had it been that long already?) to hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes. They decided not long after they arrived that when they located one, two would go to retrieve and destroy it. It was too risky for them all to go, what if all of them perished? No one else would ever think to search in their absence. One had to stay behind to preserve hope for the rest of the Wizarding World.

Ever since, Harry and either Ron or Hermione by his side, they had been successfully destroying all but one of the Horcruxes. Dumbledore's theories had been correct. But tonight was the hunt for last, and probably most difficult, Horcrux: Nagini the snake.

This being one of the most dangerous retrievings in their short "career," Hermione and Ron had begged Harry not to come with them. He was vital after all, the "Chosen One." At first, he flat out refused. No way was he going to let his friends walk head on into danger. He didn't even want that for himself, let alone his friends to be dragged along with, but what choice did he have against them?

So, after a long hour of raised voices, folded arms, angry tears, and words that will soon be regretted, Harry gave in from the sheer fact that he was emotionally drained and could argue no longer. Ron and Hermione left in pure silence, their hearts hardened just a bit more from the darkness looming just in front of their unsuspecting noses.

And now here Harry Potter sat, feeling utterly and completely useless, watching rain droplets make a wet path down the window that separated him from the outside world and trying to ignore the slightly more painful twinge in his scar.

Suddenly, the ticking clock seemed obnoxiously loud to his ears. Glancing lazily over the clock he registered that they had been gone about three hours and he hadn't moved one bit. He supposed he should at least make himself comfortable. Searches like this sometimes lasted days.

So for the hours and hours leading up to their return, Harry ate little, read quite a bit, wrote a few sentences in a personal journal he'd been keeping unknown to his friends, and reluctantly dosed off for short periods of time. He rarely slept anymore. Either insomnia plagued him or the nightmares did.

He must have dosed off again for when he woke the fire in the grate was only smoldering ashes. He tried to revive them with the fire poker, but it was no use. Untangling himself from the chair, he wandered aimlessly over to the mantle above the fireplace to stare at the picture in front of him. Slowly he reached out and gently removed it from the shelf. He gently rubbed his thumb over it and tried to remember what such innocence felt like.

The Harry, Ron, and Hermione that resided within the picture frame were in the middle of an epic snowball fight. They were all ducking and hiding, running and throwing. How oblivious this picture perfect trio was to their fate; to the train wreck waiting just around the corner. It was hard to believe that these tumbling, rosy-cheeked children ever existed. His eyes raked their way over the photo once more before he began to put it back on the mantelpiece.

But suddenly it began to change before his eyes. All at once the tone was slightly darker and there was an eerie soft glow that surrounded it. Somehow the snow wasn't snow anymore, it was flecks fire that fell from the clouds like rain. Harry felt them like pinpricks on his skin, scorching his clothes and charring his skin. The frame was warm beneath his fingers as the figures within the photograph fell to their knees in anguish. He watched them yell out in despair but couldn't hear a sound. Their screams itched just beneath his skin as the picture warped and an invisible flame burned away at the edges.

From far away he heard voices calling his name, but the darkness had already started creeping in from the corners of his vision as the floor came up to meet him…

----

The first thing Harry noticed was the ringing in his ears.

The second thing he noticed was a cold hand gripping his as if he were the very anchor of their existence.

And the third thing he noticed (after the ringing in his ears subsided) was a familiar voice whispering, "Please Harry. Please wake up…"

His heart swelled at the sound of her voice and the pleading within it. Slowly he lifted his heavy eyelids and saw Hermione whispering incoherently with her eyes screwed shut and gripping his hand tightly. Her hair was hanging limply from her head and her whole body was soaked to the bone. She shivered every once in a while but never opened her eyes.

Gently he squeezed her hand. Her head snapped up and her eyes found his. A sigh formed in her mouth but before he even heard it escape, Hermione wrapped her arms around him tightly and completely knocked the breath out of him.

"Umm, Hermione?" Harry rasped.

"Yes?" she muttered into his shoulder.

"I can't really breathe here."

"Oh, right. Sorry…"

Slowly she loosened her grip on him until she was sitting back on her chair at his side. He could see the worry clouding her eyes.

"I'm just so glad you're alright. That's all," her hands were still gripped tightly together.

"Hermione?"

She looked up at him. "Yes?"

"What happened? After I…blacked out?" He had a feeling that something out of the ordinary had happened to cause her to worry so much.

At first she just stared at her lap, searching for words. Then she looked up at him and their eyes locked.

"When Ron and I got back from searching you were staring at that photo and gasping. Like you couldn't breathe. Then you fainted and I reached out to try to help you and you started…convulsing. Your eyes rolled up into the back of your head and you were just thrashing. I told Ron to go get a spoon or something so you wouldn't bite your tongue clear off and after a while you started settling down. But your pulse was so faint Harry. It was almost like it wasn't there and you were clammy all over. I was just so scared."

She took a deep breath and stared down at her hands again. He watched her twist her hands in her lap.

"But I'm okay now."

Hermione raised her head and a slight smile graced her lips. "Yes. You're alright now."

He half-smiled back before she got up from her chair and made her way to a suitcase sitting on the dresser within the room. She was searching for something.

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood beside her as she rummaged through the contents.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Well," she began as she tossed a few things out of her way, "we're not entirely sure how to destroy Nagini so I figured I might as well start looking for a spell or something shouldn't I?"

It was then he realized the suitcase was entirely filled with books and obviously had been magically expanded from the inside to hold such volumes. Something caught his eye and he stilled her hand. He plucked from the suitcase and enormously battered copy of _Hogwarts, A History._

A blush crept its way up Hermione's face. "Well…I thought we might…need it sometime…" she muttered lamely.

And then Harry did something he hadn't done in a long time. He laughed. He genuinely and truly laughed. And no matter how embarrassed Hermione was, she couldn't help but smile.

For at that moment, she thought she might be in love with him.


	2. Visiting One's Past

A/N: Okay so I forgot author's notes on the last chapter. Sue me. The title is a song by Boysetsfire. The song makes great reading music to this fic. Please R&R! Tell me if I should continue this story. I already have a bit of a sequel in mind…

Also, I was re-reading chapter one and I realized that I had never explained that Harry is in fact NOT living at his parents' house and why. So before you start getting confused while reading some bits about the house the Trio is currently living in, don't get your panties in a twist! Just keep reading. It will explain itself by the end of the chapter.

Disclaimer: I wish I may, I wish I might, own Harry Potter for once tonight…pause…Dammit, foiled again….

**Chapter 2: Visiting One's Past**

Harry's scar was aflame.

In fact, his entire body was awash in agony. He lay there within tangled bed sheets, trying to erase the memory of this latest dream. It reminded him fiercely of his premonition earlier concerning the photograph.

With clammy hands, Harry groped for his glasses on the bedside table. As he slipped them on the room came into sharp focus, revealing the tiniest crack of morning dawn shining through the window. He sat up gingerly, still not quite trusting his shaking arms.

The pain in his scar began to fade and he yawned. 'Better get up now before I sleep the day away.' Harry reasoned to himself.

After removing himself from the mess of sheets, he swung his legs over the side and threw on some clothes. He tried briefly to comb his unruly hair in front of the bathroom mirror but failed miserably.

"You only seem to be making it worse dear," commented the mirror.

He paused to look at himself for a moment. "Tell me about it," he replied while setting the comb back on the counter.

The first thing Harry noticed when he stepped out into the hall was a loud snore emanating from Ron's room. With a smirk crossing his face, he crept quietly towards the room of his snoring friend and rapped smartly (and quite loudly) on the door while calling, "Wake up Ron!"

Behind the door came a muffled but still obviously startled sound and the crash of Ron falling out of bed. Harry struggled to contain his laughter.

A few moments later the door opened a notch and Ron's tired face and bed hair was visible. "Now why did you do that Harry? I was just having the most arousing dream – "

"Please, _please _don't finish that sentence," he replied, pushing open the door and making his way through the dark room to rip open the curtains on the other side. The room was instantly flooded with light, making his friend groan. "_Carpe Deum _Ron. Seize the day."

The redhead raised a single eyebrow. "What are you on Harry?"

He feigned shock. "How dare you Weasley. And here I thought you were my friend."

Ron grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, turned him around, and forced him back out the way he came. He stood in the doorway and promptly flipped Harry the bird saying, "_Carpe _that," and closing the door.

Harry sniggered and walked away, leaving him to his beauty sleep. Halfway down the stairs he, once again, heard the loud snores of his best friend upstairs. Shaking his head and smiling, he head down the rest of the stairs hoping to see Hermione.

He emerged into the seemingly untouched kitchen, save from the dirty dishes that desperately needed to be washed that piled in the sink. Turning to his right he made his way into the living room, which also was not inhabited by a certain bushy-haired friend of his. Harry paused for a second before realizing the only place she could be. It was like a second home to her after all…

When he entered the library the smell of dusty pages and old books met his nostrils as light streamed delicately in from the many large windows on the east wall, interrupted by the aisles of dusty volumes that cast shadows across the floor. Maneuvering gracefully through the shelves of books, he searched for Hermione while silently admiring the room itself. The house the three currently inhabited (there was no need to buy a house in Godric's Hollow as the village itself was completely deserted) was a small cozy house from an onlookers view, but the inside, as with Hermione's suitcase, had been magically expanded to accumulate the library's stacks upon stacks of reading material that were piled there. Everything from _A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions _to _A Day Among The Daisies _was stuffed into the room, often in the wrong place. This in turn made Hermione sniff in disapproval whenever she could not find the book she wanted.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he continued wandering down the aisles, pausing every once in a while in case he could hear her. But the silence of the wood paneled room never broke and he just kept walking, hands in his pockets. There was a certain warmth of the room that he could not describe. Maybe it was the smell that was so distinctly the smell of a library and Hermione at the same time that made him feel automatically warmer. Or perhaps it was just the stretches of sunlight that hit his skin whenever he emerged from the shadow of a bookshelf. But then there was also a sadness that tinted the room. He could feel it in the room like a humid presence. But perhaps it was just because he could see his parents' rundown house and just make out the two gravestones the emerged from the ground in the back yard from a few of the enormous windows.

Harry was so lost in his own thoughts that, first of all, he had stopped walking and was standing quite still and secondly, that a soft, deep breathing was coming from his left. Snapping out of his reverie, he turned on his heels and the sight of his bushy-haired friend met him. She had clearly been up most of the night researching for she was slouched at one of the tables with her head laying on her folded arms which rested upon an open book. The rhythmic rise and fall of her frame told him clearly that she was asleep, even though he couldn't see her face. He stepped quietly around the table and laid a hand on her shoulder saying, "Hermione?"

She stirred slightly, but continued sleeping.

He sighed and shook her gently repeating, "Hermione?" She stirred a bit again, but her deep, rhythmic breathing continued. He was just about to try to rouse her again when she muttered sleepily,

"Harry…"

He froze. But it wasn't that she had just muttered his name while asleep that made him pause. No, it was the peculiar way she said it. It seemed as if it were laden with some melancholy emotion. Sadness.

Did _he_ make her feel this way?

The second the thought wriggled its way into his mind, an avalanche of others continued to pour into his skull. Was it something he had done? Surely not, Hermione would've told him. She would have voiced her complaint by now. Then why was she upset? Perhaps she blamed him for something. But that couldn't be right. What could she blame him for other than bringing her and Ron here (which, he couldn't help thinking, was their idea in the first place)? Does she maybe regret coming? It would explain why she had never told him this before. He knew she wanted to be there for him. But now she had grown tired of the endless game. Maybe wary of the always rising death toll of the Order and frightened for her life, or the lives of others. Did she feel he was holding her down?

Before Harry and time to dwell on the thought, he felt the subject of his thoughts moving beneath his hand. Realizing he was gripping her shoulder a little tighter than he had intended, he released her as she gave a wide yawn. Hermione looked down at her book and closed it. Her eyes wandered for whatever woke her and settled upon her dark haired companion. A small smile formed on her mouth.

"Hey Harry," she said while rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. When she looked up, he was wearing a curious expression on his face.

"Hey," he replied, forcing a grin for her sake, but his thoughts were miles away. Either Hermione didn't notice, or she feigned her relaxed composure. The latter option seemed to be more likely. And sure enough, when he turned his gaze away from her, he felt her worried eyes upon him. He pretended not to notice and continued gazing out the window.

"I think I'm going to visit their graves today," he said suddenly, still focusing his gaze upon the glass. She didn't need to ask, she already knew he meant his parents' graves.

"Alright," she said, but she knew that Harry would go anyway with or without her permission. "Do you…er…want me to come with you?"

He turned his gaze to her. "No thanks. Maybe some other time." He had only once let Ron and Hermione come with him to their graves. He preferred to be alone when he visited them.

Hermione nodded her understanding and picked up her book from the table, making to return it to one of the shelves. He turned and made his way to the entrance of the library. She paused to watch him leave, and then turned her mind to the task of returning her volume to the shelf.

Harry left, his mind still buzzing with thoughts. But, try as he might, he could not suppress a grin when he heard a huff of frustration come from behind him and Hermione's annoyed voice say, "Why are these books never _organized_?"

---

The wind that ruffled the hem of his traveling cloak had a slight nip to it, meaning that September chill was soon drawing near. He didn't want to think about what he could've been doing this time of the year had he not had Voldemort to hunt and instead had finished Hogwarts. Would he be an Auror now as he had wanted?

Then there was the matter of Hermione. Harry wasn't sure why he was so put off by the fact that she might be regretting her trip to Godric's Hollow, since he hadn't wanted to put their lives in danger in the first place. He just couldn't shake the fact that he felt a little…betrayed.

"The Old Potter Place" as Remus had called it when he had escorted them to the village their first day, was located just across a clearing from the house the Trio currently lived in. It was oddly out on it's own, with no houses surrounding it, which Harry suspected was perfect for the Fidelius Charm when it was still in use. To those who did not know it was there, there was just a clearing with no house in sight.

As he came closer, the now familiar sight of a rundown house came into view. He had never entered the house (well, unless you counted when he was a year old) and he decided today was the day. Almost a year ago, Remus had explained to them upon arrival that the Potter house was not fit to live in. The walls weren't sturdy and would surely collapse at any moment, the wood was weak from years of infestation, and holes still punctured the walls where spells had hit. Though he would never admit it, Harry was slightly relieved that he would not have to live in his parents' house. He wasn't sure he would be able to take the emotion overload. Today, he would risk the house's dangers and his own fears.

His knees became weak as he stood before the door that was hanging off its hinges. Slight bits of rubble and dirt scattered across the floor of what he supposed was the living room. Stepping carefully in, he examined the scene before him: toppled furniture, burn holes in the walls, and broken photographs that scattered the floor. Timidly, he bent down and picked one up. It was a picture of the original Order of the Phoenix, which he remembered Moody showing him in fifth year. Slowly he slid the photo from its frame and pocketed it. He crossed to the mantle, upon which were more photographs (The Mauraders at Hogwarts, his mother and father out on a date, Sirius and his father laughing at something beyond the view of the frame, his mother rocking him as an infant) and all of which he put in the pockets of his robes. It felt strange to be stealing pictures from a house in which he once lived, but somehow he couldn't leave them there. To his right there were stairs that led to the second level of the house. Swallowing hard, he made his way up the stairs, trepidation in his every step.

Harry first happened upon his mother and father's room. It was small and cozy and seemed untouched except for the fact that the bed was not made. He found a few other pictures on the bedside tables and took them as well.

He rounded the corner into a room that was, most obviously, his room. The wallpaper was blue and yellow, covered in cartoon animals and a crib sat in the corner. His heart pounded a wild tattoo against his chest as he stepped in. The room was also relatively untouched except for a mobile above the crib that was askew and something that looked grotesquely like a blood stain on the floor.

All at once, his mother's screaming voice hit him hard like a blow to the chest. Her words echoed and reverberated through his mind, just like in third year when a dementor entered their compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Harry covered his ears, but the sound could not be stifled. Everywhere he looked reminded him of a past that could have been much happier if there was no stupid prophecy. If his parents had lived…

He couldn't stand it anymore. Feeling suffocated and slightly nauseated, he rushed to the front door and felt the cool air whip his face. Taking deep breaths, he turned to the back of the house and found their graves. Welcoming the slight familiarity they brought, he waved his wand and produced a bouquet of flowers. He split them ceremoniously into two and laid them at the graves. He wanted desperately to say something – anything – to vent the enormous emotional breakdown he felt at the moment, but no words escaped his dry throat. Unable to speak, he just sat there staring at the gravestones for a very long time.

Perhaps, if he had just turned around at that moment, he would have seen the apparent struggle that was silhouetted just inside the tall library windows and thus saved himself from a renewed sense of misery upon arriving home that evening.


End file.
